


A Different Way To Be

by Polomonkey



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Background Merthur, F/F, Fix-It, Friendship, Good Morgana (Merlin), Grief/Mourning, Hope, Romance, Swordplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-09 17:47:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27950249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Polomonkey/pseuds/Polomonkey
Summary: She cannot succumb to the belief that the only way to peace is through violence. Too much is at stake. The heart of her kingdom and the heart of her lady.Four times Gwen and Morgana sparred for practice, and one time they sparred for real.
Relationships: Gwen/Morgana (Merlin)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 50
Collections: Merlin Holidays 2020





	A Different Way To Be

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elissastillstands](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elissastillstands/gifts).



> Dear Elissa, thank you so much for your beautiful prompts! From one Gwen lover to another, I sincerely hope you enjoy this story! 
> 
> Huge thanks to my amazing beta jiang who did such a wonderful job in such a short space of time <3 (any mistakes left are my own) And many thanks to the lovely and patient mods who run this wonderful fest so well every year <3
> 
> This fic has a vague relationship to series one canon but it's pretty much all au from To Kill the King onwards. Title taken from [Dreams by The Cranberries](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yam5uK6e-bQ), which basically became my go to Morgwen song in the course of writing this (it fits them so well!)

The first time Gwen and Morgana spar, they’ve only known each other for three months.

Gwen has been working as a chambermaid since she was ten and in that time somehow caught the favour of the retiring steward, a kindly old man with crinkly eyes and a small collection of sweetmeats he keeps in his chambers to slip to the younger servants.

He’s already been replaced as steward by the time Morgana arrives in Camelot, but he still has the ear of the king and so it is that Gwen is bestowed with the honour of attending a lady. Morgana is a summer older than her at thirteen, and all Gwen knows about her is that she comes from Ireland across the sea and that she is a ward of King Uther.

Ward means her parents are dead. Gwen feels sorry for her before she even meets her, knowing that. Her own mother died when she was small and she still thinks of her every day. If her father were gone too, Gwen doesn’t know what she would do.

She arrives on her first day ready to be kind, but Morgana is hard to be kind to. She’s prickly, closed off, sour faced. She snaps at Gwen when the hairbrush catches on a tangle and she huffs pointedly when Gwen pulls her dress too tight in the mornings. She never says thank you and she sometimes acts like Gwen isn’t even in the room with her.

Gwen carries on being kind anyway because it’s in her nature and because she’s seen the tear-streaks on Morgana’s face when she wakes her; she knows that the lady is grieving and has no one to grieve to. Gwen has only rarely seen the king but he looks like a hard man, and by all accounts he is one. She’s crossed paths with Prince Arthur occasionally and he seems almost unbearably boisterous, the kind of boy who will tease and poke and throw mud at clean dresses. Morgana can’t confide in either of them. She’s alone in a strange country, with no one to talk to.

In training, the head maid Elizabeth had told Gwen that lady’s maids were there to be silent listeners. That noble women had few others around to confide in, that their husbands wouldn’t want to be burdened by the petty affairs of women. A maid was there to keep their secrets. And a maid worth her salt would never reveal them to another living soul.

Gwen doesn’t know what Morgana’s secrets are yet but she fervently pledges to guard any that come under her care. She is proud to be a lady’s maid, proud to be bringing home money to her father and brother. She can handle Morgana’s moods, they're nothing compared to when she used to lay fires in the early morning and risk the wrath of some sleeping nobleman should she inadvertently wake him. And Morgana is so plainly unhappy that even her barbs don’t sting. She has no genuine malice in her, only a defensiveness born from a grief too big for her body.

Gwen brings in flowers anyway and hums cheerful songs and ignores the worst excesses of Morgana’s irritability. Her hands become defter when dressing Morgana and practice makes untangling even the worst knot in her hair virtually painless. She learns what food Morgana likes and requests it from the kitchen, she identifies Morgana’s favourite dresses and brings them out on bad days, and she picks lavender to add to Morgana’s bath, seeing how the lady loves the smell.

By the second month, there is a softening in Morgana towards her. By the third month, the prickliness is all but gone. The sadness is not, however, and Gwen doesn’t know how to aid that. Lavender cannot cure a broken heart, though she hopes her small acts of kindness do at least some good.

Morgana spends most of her first months in Camelot inside her chambers, but as the winter melts into spring, she seems to want to go outside more. Gwen takes this to be a good sign and accompanies her on several walks around the citadel, pointing out the different stalls and traders, feeding her bits of local news and gossip as they go.

The walks do Morgana good and they become a regular affair. The king has arranged for a tutor to come in a few hours every day and then the rest of the afternoon is meant to be spent embroidering. Gwen doesn’t mind the peace and quiet, but it becomes apparent after the third time Morgana stabs her finger that she has no patience for needlework. So they take a turn about the courtyard or go to the herb garden or wherever else Morgana desires instead.

Increasingly, Morgana desires to go to the training field, to sit and watch the squires and knights at practice.

She had become very interested when she found out Gwen’s father was a blacksmith and asked if Gwen knew anything of the trade. Gwen knows a little, enough to work the bellows and hammer simple shapes, though it’s her older brother Elyan who is training full time to succeed their father as the town smith. But she had helped her father or brother with the odd sword and Morgana seemed fascinated to hear it. Anything to do with swords is fascinating to her.

“My father was teaching me to spar,” she says one day.

It’s the first time she’s mentioned her father spontaneously and Gwen drops the daisy chain she was idly making, turning to give Morgana her full attention.

“Where I come from, fighting isn’t just for men,” Morgana says, her voice insistent, like she’s argued this point before. Gwen wonders if she has, perhaps with the king. “My ancestors were warrior women. My father said he could train me to fight just as well as any knight.”

She pulls up a clump of grass, throws it to one side.

“They won’t let me here.”

Gwen knows it’s for the best to comfort Morgana with the idea of a new hobby. Embroidery has hidden charms, if given a chance, and the learning of an instrument is always rewarding. She has a different life in Camelot now and there are ways to be a lady here that she may well even enjoy in time.

But Gwen doesn’t say that. She looks out at the knights, crashing their long-staffs together, spurred on by shouts of encouragement from the squires and local boys.

“I know where we can get practice swords,” she says instead.

She sneaks two swords from her fathers reserve that very night. She feels guilty, but she knows she’ll be returning them before they’ll be missed. And Morgana needs this.

They slip away to the woods; not too far in so as to be dangerous, but far enough that they’re shielded from view by trees. The plan is to throw the swords into the bushes if they’re caught and claim they were just out walking.

The sword is heavy in Gwen’s hand, even though she chose the ones made specially for squires to learn with. Morgana doesn’t seem to feel it – she hefts the sword with ease, testing its weight.

Then she looks over at Gwen, sizing her up.

“Do you know how to spar?”

Gwen shakes her head. She’s watched Elyan sometimes, who in turn had watched the knights from afar and tried to copy their movements. He’s surprisingly deft, and she thinks he might do well as a soldier one day, though the thought of him fighting in a battle makes her ill.

“I’ll teach you,” Morgana says, confident. There’s colour in her cheeks and she looks healthier than she has done all winter.

“First you must survey your surroundings,” she instructs, and Gwen can almost hear Gorlois' voice speaking through her. “Sunlight can be an advantage to you if you make sure it’s in your opponent’s eyes and not your own.”

It’s barely March and the sunlight filtering through the trees is weak at best. Gwen bites back a grin, not wanting to offend Morgana, but to her surprise the lady cracks a smile.

“Well, not today perhaps,” she says. “But still, good to check.”

Gwen nods solemnly and they both giggle a little.

“Now, hold your sword like this,” Morgana says, demonstrating a two handed grip on her own. “And keep your elbows tucked in.”

Gwen tries, still unused to the weight of the sword.

“You’ll want to have your knees a little bent at all times,” Morgana continues, like it’s a recitation she’s recalling. “For ease of movement.”

Gwen bends her knees and feels faintly ridiculous.

“Not quite so much,” Morgana says. “Look at me.”

She does look somewhat natural with the sword in her hand, at least more natural than Gwen feels anyway.

“Now you defend while I attack.”

Gwen must look somewhat alarmed because Morgana laughs again, a short peal that seems inviting rather than mocking.

“I won’t really attack! We’ll just do the movements very slowly while I talk through them.”

The practice swords are too dull to cause any real harm but Gwen still feels a touch of nerves as Morgana approaches. But she does only as she says, slowly bringing her sword to clash against Gwen’s whilst talking about defensive postures and back steps.

After a while they switch positions, and although Gwen doesn’t exactly enjoy being the attacker, she can’t help but be pleased when Morgana praises her efforts. She also can’t help but like the way Morgana physically corrects her, placing her hands on Gwen’s arms or side to steer her into the right position. It isn’t proper for nobles and servants to touch too much, even for a lady and her maid, yet when Gwen cares for someone, it feels wrong not to touch them. She likes to have that connection with another person, that contact that draws them closer.

Morgana’s hands are warm and very soft. Gwen does not wish for her hands, she is proud of the calluses that hard work has given hers, but she likes the feel of Morgana’s all the same.

They’re so engrossed that they don’t hear the footsteps until it’s too late. Gwen’s heart sinks when she sees Prince Arthur’s familiar crown of blond hair poke into the clearing. The only person worse to catch them would be King Uther himself.

It’s too late to throw the swords aside. They stand frozen, Morgana’s chin already tilted in defiance, as he observes the scene. Gwen waits for the thoughtless comment, the threat to tell his father, the belittling insult that will shatter the fragile happiness Morgana has found here today.

“Your stance isn’t wide enough,” he says at last.

“Excuse me?” Morgana says and she looks as wrong-footed as Gwen feels.

“You need to create a solid base with your lower body, otherwise you’ll be easier to knock over,” the prince says, and there’s no trace of mockery in his voice.

To their surprise he demonstrates, placing his left foot forward, an imaginary sword held in his outstretched hands.

Morgana looks at him for a few moments, seemingly contemplating.

Then she widens her own stance.

“Is that better?”

“Yes. Remember to keep your hips facing your enemy too though.”

Morgana turns her hips towards Gwen.

“There, now you’ll be much sturdier.”

The three of them stand in silence.

“Are you going to tell your father?” Morgana blurts out, dropping her sword to her side.

Prince Arthur looks at her, and Gwen can almost hear the wheels in his mind turning.

“You read and write Latin,” he says at last, utterly incongruous.

Morgana narrows her eyes.

“Yes.”

“Mine is poor. Father won’t leave me alone about it. But I can’t stand Master Randolf when he starts droning on.”

Master Randolf is Prince Arthur’s tutor and Gwen is privately glad Morgana wasn’t forced to share him. He’s known to be a rather dull man, and Morgana’s own tutor Master Anselm is much livelier.

She still doesn’t know quite what Arthur is proposing, but Morgana is ahead of her.

“You want me to help you with your Latin. In return for not telling your father.”

“No,” the prince corrects her. “I want you to help me with my Latin, and in return I’ll help you with your sparring. My father doesn’t need to know about any of it.”

Gwen is surprised again. That Prince Arthur would go against his father, whom he always seemed hound-loyal to, and that he would offer such a fair bargain to Morgana, considering he clearly had the upper hand.

Perhaps he wasn’t as boisterous and insensitive as she had thought.

Morgana nods slowly.

“ _Accipio_ ,” she says, which Gwen takes as an agreement.

Prince Arthur nods too.

“Good. We’ll go deeper into the forest next time, I found you here too easily.”

He turns as if to go and then looks back.

“Did you take the swords from the armoury?”

“They belong to Gwen’s father,” Morgana says, and for the first time the prince fixes his eyes on her.

“Gwen?” he says.

“Guinevere, sire,” Gwen says, with a curtsey.

“Well met, Guinevere,” he says with a somewhat impudent smile. “Perhaps I’ll teach you to spar too.”

“And perhaps she’ll teach you to make your own bed,” Morgana shoots back and Arthur laughs, tipping his head back.

“Perhaps,” he calls, and leaves the clearing.

Gwen and Morgana are left staring at each other.

“He’s been nothing but an irritation to me since the day I arrived,” Morgana says, shaking her head. “But I can’t fault his offer.”

“Nor I, my lady,” Gwen says, finally placing the heavy sword on the ground. “And I’m sure you’ll find him a better sparring partner than me.”

And then Morgana turns and favours her with a smile the likes of which Gwen has never seen before. Her whole face softens and in it there seems to be a mark of gratitude for all the kindnesses Gwen has shown her so far, as well as the spirit of some new hope emerging within her.

It’s just fanciful thinking, but Gwen sees it all the same.

“I could ask for no better partner than you,” Morgana says, and Gwen’s face heats with pleasure.

***

And yet they do not spar together again for five years.

Arthur is as good as his word at first, meeting them in the woods to practice with Morgana while Gwen sits to the side and watches or works on her embroidery. Nearly two years pass in relative contentment and peace, Morgana and Gwen growing closer every day, Arthur an unexpected ally in their pursuit of life beyond the castle.

Then Arthur changes. His voice deepens and his shoulders broaden and stray hairs appear on his chin. And he turns cold.

It’s the king’s doing, Gwen knows it is. As Arthur grows, his father summons him more often, watches him at training, appears in his chambers while he learns his lessons.

King Uther is a harsh man. Morgana tells Gwen that, much of the time, he does not like what he sees in Arthur. She confides in Gwen about the sharp words she has overheard, the derisive dismissals following some small mistake in training. Or even the cold fury when Master Randolf reports that Arthur is behind in his studies.

Gwen sees some of it herself. She attends Morgana at dinner now, which is almost always taken with the king and Arthur. She hears the jibes and jabs, sees the looks of disapproval, and watches Arthur shrink in on himself.

She has grown to like him - his blunt way of speaking, his easy confidence, the way he and Morgana spark off each other as any natural born siblings might. It hurts her to see him shriven by the king’s cruelty.

But there’s nothing she can do. Arthur grows distant. He no longer has time to come out to the woods, he’s too busy training on his own behalf. The banter between Morgana and him takes on a sour note, until it's barely more than snapping at each other. One day she sees him mock a fallen squire and she turns away, throat clogged with disappointment.

 _This is the way of nobles_ , Elyan says. All the high-born boys he used to play with in the town now turn from him when they pass by.

_They’ve learned that we’re different from each other. In their minds that makes them better._

Her brother says this with no real sorrow, no humility. He is rock solid in his belief that he is no less than any noble man. He almost seems to have some sense of pity for the boys, that they could not see what was so plainly evident to him – that all people were the same.

Gwen has never felt any less for her station in life either, but she cannot detach herself like Elyan can. She misses Arthur and she’s angry with him. Even if this is the natural order of things for nobles and servants. She wishes he could have been better.

Morgana is hurt too, though she would never admit it. She makes fun of Arthur’s new pomposity, but there is a bitter undertone. It’s complicated by the fact that she is clearly the king’s favourite – the whole castle knows it. It’s possible that Arthur would not have to work as hard for King Uther’s approval if Morgana weren’t there, outshining him in every light.

Though Gwen has grown adept at reading her lady by now, she is never quite sure how Morgana feels about the king. Some days they seem genuinely close – him seeking her out to gift a book or new fabric for a dress, a prize from some far reach of the kingdom that Camelot’s men might recently have tramped through. Other days Morgana avoids him, shutting herself up in her room and claiming a headache, or speaking in monosyllables throughout the dinner they share.

Arthur would catch hell for this kind of behaviour, but the king seems to bear it from her. Perhaps it is guilt. There have long been rumours in the castle that Morgana’s father Gorlois was deprived of soldiers when he took his last stand. That he would have lived had Uther sent the necessary reinforcements. Gwen has never dared ask if Morgana has heard these rumours too.

There might also be guilt on Morgana’s side. She still keeps the hand-drawn image of her parents on her desk, though she does not sit and stare at it as she used to. To let a new man father her… Gwen suspects that Morgana feels she is betraying Gorlois by letting Uther in.

Still, while Morgana would not replace her father, she seems to see Gwen as almost family these days. Gwen finds it hard to remember the early coldness Morgana displayed towards her, considering their closeness now. They are confidants in every aspect, as close as sisters. Gwen is with Morgana when she gets her first blood, and helps her undertake the complex system of cloths and cleaning that appear to be the necessary price of womanhood. At least Gwen’s father had made an awkward attempt to explain her new monthly situation to her before he’d sent her down the road to learn the unvarnished truth from Betty the cooper’s wife.

“Men are afraid of what comes naturally to women,” Betty had said in somewhat runic fashion before getting down to the explanation. And Gwen had imparted all that same information to Morgana – the way their mothers might have, had either of them lived.

In return, Morgana notices six months later when Gwen falls prey to cramps and sickness, and makes sure work is light on those days, and Gwen has plenty of time to sit and rest. She is even occasionally so bold as to refuse that either of them attend dinner with the king that night, knowing that it will be hell for Gwen to stand on her feet for that long. They giggle later over how red Uther’s face turns when Morgana delicately alludes to ‘womanly sickness’ in making her excuses.

The changes Arthur goes through to become a man seem much more outward and visible than Gwen and Morgana’s. They never suffer the indignity of having their voice crack in company or face the mockery of the knights at the sparse beards they can muster. But their chests swell and hurt, and they bleed, and cramp, and inside there is anger and pain and fear and chaos that they dare not give voice to.

At least, that’s how Gwen feels. She knows her lady well enough to know Morgana feels much the same, though it can rarely be discussed freely. In her fourteenth year, Gwen finds herself crying over the smallest things: loose threads on embroidery, dead mice in the kitchen, a snag in her dress from the rough castle wall. She does this in private wherever possible because servants cannot be seen to have emotions of their own, and she would not risk disgracing Morgana by appearing anything less than professional. But Morgana herself can be moved to tears by a slow tune on the lute or a difficult lesson with her tutor, and her chambers feel like the one place Gwen is safe to be less than composed.

Not entirely safe, of course. As close as they have become, Gwen never forgets the difference between their stations. Her job is to attend to Morgana’s needs, not the other way round. She treasures their relationship, but she is practical about it. Their paths in life will take them to very different places, and the way they feel about each other now might well fade in time.

Gwen tells herself this and tells herself this and then one day in her sixteenth year she wakes up and realises she is in love with Morgana.

It’s a horrible shock, though in retrospect she supposes it shouldn’t have been. She has always admired her lady’s looks, always found herself a little lost for words at the sight of Morgana dressed up for a feast or tourney, resplendent in her finery.

But it’s the smaller things that have really bewitched her – Morgana’s strange snort of a laugh when she’s caught off guard, the sleepy softness of her face when she wakes in the morning, her love of old books and her tendency to read out passages that she thinks Gwen will enjoy.

She wonders if it was inevitable. Other than her father and Elyan, she barely sees anyone but her lady. Where would she have found time or space for another love? It’s only ever been Morgana.

It doesn’t mean anything will come of it, however. Her father talked of fleeting loves once, made sentimental by wine, whilst she and Elyan had giggled in the corner. She has forgotten most of what he said, save for one fragment:

_You’ll have many loves in this life, and some will flicker out, and some will burn forever._

Her father has never remarried or even come close. His love for their mother was one that burns forever.

But Gwen’s love for Morgana will flicker out with the passing of time. She knows it because there is no other way. Morgana will need to marry to secure land or peace, and Gwen herself will make a match of another servant or perhaps a soldier. She has choices in life, she is happily unbound by the kind of destiny that Morgana was born to, but she knows some things will inevitably come to pass.

Still, she is sixteen, lovesick, and not quite practical enough not to indulge in a little pining. She inhales the sweet scent of Morgana’s hair when she brushes it every morning and sits enraptured on the floor when Morgana recites from her books. Whenever Morgana grabs her hand in some sudden excitement, a small thrill goes through Gwen. She hoards these precious moments like arcane treasures, storing them up for the times to come when there will be no more such favours.

Not half a year after her revelation, however, things take a turn. Morgana stops acting the way she used to, and Gwen can’t quite understand why. She seems restless in her lessons and distracted at dinner. She’s flustered when Gwen dresses her in the morning and morose when Gwen leaves her at night. One day, Gwen reaches out to adjust the collar of her dress, and Morgana jumps away.

It’s somewhat devastating. Gwen reminds herself that Morgana is almost of age now, that she has possibly entered some new stage of development that Gwen cannot follow her to yet. But it hurts to think that Morgana is moving on from her so soon, even though Gwen had long foreseen it.

Things come to a head in the summertime. The air is thick and close, almost oppressively so. Gwen craves the cool corridors of the castle, particularly since her own little house is stifling in the heat. However, Morgana wishes to be outside, and so Gwen trails glumly after her; whether to watch the knights at practice or simply wander aimlessly through the lower town.

She avails herself of the water pump wherever possible, but she still feels sticky with sweat, her hair damp and clinging to her forehead. It's especially irritating considering the amount of maintenance her hair needs, something Morgana has no conception of. In fact, she’s almost ready to be cross with Morgana when her lady suggests they visit the stables. Gwen readily agrees, happy for even a small amount of shade.

Morgana’s horse Sadhbh is nickering in the corner, and Morgana sets to brushing her while Gwen perches on a hay bale and tries to cool down.

It’s blissfully quiet for a while until two young squires burst in, engaged in intense battle with two long sticks. They’re so engrossed that they nearly trip over Gwen’s feet, and one knocks a brush off the wall behind her and sends it flying.

“Boys,” Morgana says archly, and they freeze and turn, sticks dropping to the ground.

“Lady Morgana,” one stammers.

“Should you be fighting in here?”

“No, my lady,” the other says, hanging his head.

They both look prepared for punishment, but Gwen can see the glint in Morgana’s eyes and knows that she’s more amused than angered.

“It’s a hot day,” Morgana says at last, clearly enjoying their squirming. “Hot days are not for fighting. Go and swim in the lake, boys. I command it.”

They both look up, startled, and then one of them grins.

“Thanks Mo- my lady!”

They run out before she can change her mind and Morgana laughs, more jovial than Gwen has seen her in months.

“Ah, to be twelve again,” she says, as though they’re both ancient women looking back on their prime.

She puts her comb down and picks up the sticks. She seems to be inspecting them a moment, and then suddenly she throws one at Gwen.

Only quick reflexes from years of ducking projectiles thrown by the castle cook prevent Gwen from getting hit in the face.

“Morgana!”

“Want to spar?” Morgana says, lips curling into a half smile.

“You just said it was too hot to fight,” Gwen points out and Morgana shrugs.

“For little boys. Not for us. And we are _terribly_ out of practice of late.”

She’s twirling the stick in her hand, assuming the same stance that she always favoured, and somehow Gwen can’t resist. Despite the heat, despite how much she wants to just sit and rest. Morgana is looking just like she used to, and Gwen can’t let that slip away too soon.

She stands, holds her stick aloft. It’s ten times lighter than the practice swords at least, though she doubts she’ll have much better control over it.

There’s just enough space for them to stand apart, stick against stick. Morgana taps Gwen’s teasingly, then draws back.

The first hit is fast, but not fast enough that Gwen can’t parry it. She slashes back through the air and Morgana jumps away. She turns to catch Gwen on the shoulder with her stick, and Gwen takes the opportunity to poke Morgana in the stomach with hers, making them both laugh.

The sticks are so small that they barely hurt even if they make contact, so neither of them are afraid to strike out hard. The bout is almost comic, much like a carefree game played in childhood; Gwen almost wouldn’t be surprised if they had a mud fight next.

They spar back and forth, neither of them expending much energy on it, mindful of the heat of the day. It looks to be a draw until Gwen leaps back at Morgana’s latest advance and trips over a rope. Morgana tries to catch her as she falls but instead they both end up on the ground, winded and giggly, Morgana on top of Gwen.

“Surely this means I win,” Morgana says, sitting up to straddle Gwen and gently pin her hands.

“Absolutely not. Tripping was a calculated move to get you exactly where I wanted you,” Gwen says, straight faced.

“Oh?” Morgana says, and something in her face sharpens. “So this is where you want me?”

Silence falls between them. There’s no mistaking the look on Morgana’s face, and yet Gwen can’t quite believe it.

“Morgana-” she starts to say and then Morgana kisses her.

It’s only brief. Her lips are as dry as Gwen’s must be on such an airless day. Her hair tickles Gwen’s face for a moment and then she pulls back and straightens up, expression inscrutable.

“Morgana,” Gwen says again, helplessly. She doesn’t know what to think or do, she doesn’t understand what this means, she’s so hot and her head is starting to pound and she feels…

Morgana kisses her again. And draws back just as suddenly.

“I’m sorry,” she says and begins to rise.

Gwen pulls her back down.

This kiss is a lot longer. Tentatively, Gwen pushes at Morgana’s lips with her tongue and feels a shock of delight when they open to let her in. Emboldened, she deepens the kiss.

Morgana’s full weight is pressed against her and it should be unbearable in this heat but Gwen doesn’t care, she wants her even closer. She wraps her legs around Morgana’s, and Morgana gasps a little into her mouth at the new proximity of their bodies.

Slowly Morgana begins to move, grinding her hips down on Gwen as they kiss. Gwen tightens her grip in return, letting a delicious tension build within her. She would moan but Morgana’s mouth is covering hers, and something about that feels so overwhelming in the best possible way.

Then there’s a noise just outside the door and Morgana leaps to her feet just as one of the stable boys walks in.

“Sorry to interrupt, my lady,” he says with a bow, entirely too professional to even cast a glance at Gwen lying incongruously on the floor.

“Not at all, my servant has just tripped,” Morgana says quickly. “And I… will help her up now.”

Morgana’s faltering tone does nothing to suggest honesty, and yet Gwen knows the stable boy is unlikely to guess the truth of what they were doing. More probable that he assumes Morgana has struck Gwen in a fit of anger, as mistresses sometimes do their maids.

It pains her to think of Morgana being thus misconstrued but the truth would be much more damaging, so she lets Morgana pull her to her feet and they swiftly exit the stable.

Morgana turns in the direction of the castle and Gwen follows her silently until they reach her chambers.

Once inside, they pour cups of cool water, studiously avoiding each other's eyes.

“Gwen, I-” Morgana says and then stops, looking pained. “That was-”

“A mistake,” Gwen finishes for her, hoping she can hold back her tears long enough to leave. How could it have been anything but for Morgana?

“No!” Morgana says, tone fervent, and then her expressions turns wounded. “Unless… it was for you?”

“I’m your servant,” Gwen tries as a deflection, heart thumping in her chest. “It’s not for me to-”

“Stop that now,” Morgana says, crossing the room to touch her arm. “You have as much say as I do.”

It isn’t true and they both know it. Oh sure, Gwen knows that Morgana would never force upon her that which she did not want. But if Morgana seeks but a dalliance, whilst Gwen wants so much more than that, only one of them can get their way. And it will not be Gwen.

Morgana sighs, then.

“Well, not out there, perhaps, I admit. But in here…”

She takes another step closer to Gwen.

“I thought you were drawing away from me,” Gwen almost whispers. “These past few months…”

“Not at all,” Morgana says, and her tone is just as hushed. “I was afraid you might read it all upon my face, how I felt, and you would flee from me.”

Gwen shakes her head, hands trembling. Morgana reaches out to catch hold of them, squeezes them tight.

“I would not ask anything from you that you would not freely give,” she says. “But if… if this is something you feel also…”

“I do,” Gwen says, unable to hold back. She wants to protect herself, protect the fragile heart still fluttering weakly in her chest, protect the hopes and wishes and dreams she has pinned on a romance that can never last.

And yet her lady stands in front of her. Gwen never could deny her anything.

She steps forward, into Morgana’s arms.

***

The next time they spar together, the stakes are much higher.

Their first kiss is a promise made, and the next few years see that promise solidified and renewed. Morgana officially moves Gwen into the anteroom of her chamber, and from that point onwards they share a bed. They explore each others bodies, haltingly at first, then more boldly; letting a single candle illuminate the wandering of their hands and mouths. Morgana likes to please Gwen above all else, even beyond her own pleasure, and Gwen finds she has no objections. Morgana takes her apart in the darkness, then puts her back together with a single embrace. There is an exquisite joy in the quiet moments after they have made love: Morgana helping Gwen to wrap her hair with a cloth to sleep in, Gwen turning and blowing out the candle before snuggling back into Morgana’s arms.

It is imperative that no one knows of their relationship, of course, but that is surprisingly easy to achieve. There may be bawdy jokes about masters rogering stable boys after dark or certain knights seeking out the painted men that fringe the brothels in the lower town, but there are no such jibes about women. Gwen wonders sometimes if men have even considered the possibility of the love women may share. Or if they have and dismissed it as naturally secondary and inferior to the love a wife will eventually bear for her husband. Either way, their ignorance suits her. No one looks twice at a dutiful maid who has eyes only for her mistress. From the outside, it looks much like committed servitude.

Gwen is happy, so much so that she forgets for a while to fear for the future. Then Elyan leaves.

Young men strike out to see the world, it is the way of things. Gwen does not begrudge him that. But the way he goes is painful. She is in the house much less to hear the fights between father and son, but every time she visits home she feels the tension between them. Her father wants Elyan to focus on the smithing trade. Elyan would rather teach himself to fight with the swords than learn how to make them. Gwen counsels them both, tells her father that Elyan may have oats to sow before he can settle down to run the smithy. Tells Elyan that he should be patient with their father and respect all that the man has given them over the years.

Yet still the tension grows. Gwen wants Elyan to be happy, but she wants him to mature too. He never thinks anything through, never plans or weighs the consequences before he embarks on a course of action. They are opposites in this way. He teases her for being overly cautious but she sees trouble right before he walks into it. She fears for him crossing the breadth of Albion alone before he has learned how to keep himself safe.

Then one day he is gone. He hugs her goodbye on her Friday night visit, tells her how proud he is, and says he’ll see her on the morrow. Come the next morning, his clothes are missing and her father is sat on Elyan’s cot, head in his hands.

“It isn’t your fault,” Gwen says helplessly, bile rising in her throat at the sight of her father looking so small.

“I wish your mother were here,” is all her father says, raising his red-rimmed eyes to hers. She sits by him and he puts her arm around her, hugging her close like he did when she was a child.

After that she divides her time more evenly between her home and Morgana’s bed. Her father needs her, and not just for emotional support. He is short on labour in the forge and so Gwen takes again to learning what eluded her in her youth. It is hard, hot work, and more than once she curses her brother’s name for leaving her to assume his role. But mostly she just misses him.

The spring after he leaves brings a new arrival. Merlin bumbles into Camelot like a runaway goat at a feast, gentle chaos always in his wake. She watches him go from the stocks to a position as Arthur’s manservant, and he seems as ill-suited for one as the other. But she likes him from the start because he’s kind and he smiles a lot and his very first action in Camelot is to challenge Arthur in an act of cruelty.

Gwen has almost given up on the boy Arthur once was by now, having seen him so transformed, but it turns out that boy isn’t gone. He was lying in wait, and Merlin appears to be the one to bring him to the light again. When she hears the risks Arthur takes to bring the Mortaeus flower back to heal Merlin, her fondness for him begins to rekindle. She sees an Arthur who is softening again, rediscovering his nobility, remembering that once he wanted to do what was right for the whole kingdom, not just the privileged few.

Morgana agrees.

“That skinny slip of a boy is the best thing to happen to Arthur since Leon beat him in training last year,” she says, idling tracing a pattern on Gwen’s naked back.

“And Merlin’s so sweet,” Gwen says sleepily, and yelps when Morgana gives her a poke.

“Yes, I know you think so!”

Gwen had instantly come back and told Morgana about how she’d kissed Merlin in a fit of relief when he’d woken from the poison. They’d laughed over it, and now Morgana teases her with no sharpness in it. She knows too well that Gwen’s heart is only ever hers.

“Besides, you might have competition.”

“Hmm?” Gwen says. She’s half buried in one of Morgana’s soft pillows, warm and naked and content. It’s early in the evening, but they’ve had supper already and she wouldn’t mind just drifting off to sleep.

“Haven’t you noticed the way Arthur looks at him?” Morgana says and Gwen’s shocked back to wakefulness.

“Arthur?”

Morgana laughs.

“He’s been bedding knights and courtiers for years, I’d say it’s about time he met his match.”

“And you think Merlin-”

“Gwen, dear. Have you ever heard anyone be so insolent to Arthur and get away with it? He’s smitten, not that he knows it.”

“Oh.”

Gwen digests this a while.

“And Merlin?”

“I daresay he feels the same way, who else would put up with an oaf like Arthur for so long?”

It’s an intriguing prospect. They begin to spend more time together, all four of them. Gwen watches for the signs between the two men, but mostly she just enjoys their company. Merlin has a wicked sense of humour and loves to share with Gwen the gossip he’s gleaned from other castle servants. Arthur and Morgana bicker, as ever, but it’s back to the way they used to, with the love beneath it clear. Arthur seems to be listening to his father less, and Merlin more. That can only be a good thing.

And yet. Merlin's arrival in Camelot also seems to coincide with a series of strange events. First a plague afflicts the town and Gwen is nearly executed when her father mysteriously recovers from it. Then the Bayard poisoning occurs. Then Morgana falls deadly sick and only a strange new physician can heal her – a physician who promptly vanishes without a trace shortly after. And to top it all off, the four of them end up conspiring to smuggle a druid boy who has been slated for execution out of the citadel.

The events bring them all closer, but Gwen could have wished for a less brutal method. She is scarred by the experience of being put on trial, being accused of witchcraft and threatened for her life. She has avoided catching the eye of the king for so long, and her first significant encounter with him is one in which he condemns her to death. She has nightmares for months after, waking up so shaken and petrified that not even Morgana can calm her.

Morgana has always suffered from nightmares of her own, ones that Gaius treats with various draughts he concocts. These nightmares grow worse after her sudden sickness, and the thought of losing Morgana affects Gwen badly too. There are nights when they can only cling to each other, each fighting their own private demons. Gwen wishes for peace, for clarity, for an end to the recent violence.

Clarity is the one thing she receives. No longer is she uncritically grateful for her status as a servant of Camelot. She can still see all the things she loves about the city: the beauty of the castle, the bustle of the lower town, the kindness of ordinary people. But the closer she looks, the more she sees the rot. Uther’s war against magic is a sham, the incident with the druid boy was enough to convince her of that. How could a child be guilty of no crime but their birth?

She has grown up around executions, become accustomed to the everyday violence that is the justice system of Camelot. Now some days she wonders how she can bear it. Uther is not a just king and his judgements are not those of a good man. It is treason to think it and yet think it she does. She will not forget how quickly he condemned her and a little boy to death.

Nor will she forget the dark bruises on Morgana’s neck from the time she defied him.

Gwen’s love is fiercer on the behalf of others than on her own. She will not forgive what Uther has done and she will not forget. She does not wish him dead. But she wishes him gone. And she wishes Arthur in his place, in the hope that he can be a fairer ruler; the king that Camelot desperately needs.

She prays fervently that Merlin is helping him get to that place, that they all are. But then Merlin’s mother arrives in Camelot and says her village is under attack, and suddenly Merlin might be leaving them for good.

Morgana and Gwen make plans with a quickness. Gwen finds Merlin a suitable sword from the forge while Morgana packs their things. She treasures the look on his face when they tell him they’re going to accompany him home. Doesn’t he know how dear to them he’s become?

Gwen is disappointed that Arthur doesn’t ride out with them. Waking up the next morning and finding him in their camp is a surprise of the best kind. Perhaps Morgana was right about his feelings for Merlin – he’s risking the certain wrath of Uther all over again, and for the self same servant.

She nods approvingly at him and he grins back. Yet their mission is not a cheerful one, and their spirits drop the closer they come to Ealdor. Being thrust directly into battle with Kanen doesn’t help, although Morgana does seem somewhat invigorated after the clash. It’s been a long time since she’s been able to use her sword, and Gwen knows how she relishes every opportunity.

That night they huddle together in bed, needing no excuse to stay close in the cold air of Hunith’s small house. Gwen lies awake, half listening to the murmur of the boys on the floor below, half lost in her own thoughts. She’s not sure even Arthur’s skill with a sword can save Ealdor. There aren’t enough men to stave the bandits off.

She sleeps fretfully and the next day, watching the training, tells Morgana that men aren’t the only ones who can fight. The odds will still be against them but they stand more of a chance. And the women will want to fight on their own behalf, she knows it.

Morgana understands immediately, but Arthur is trickier to persuade. He is not immune to reason, however, and after poor Matthew is killed, she sees him take note of the women’s grief.

Grief becomes rage in the blink of an eye, and women have both in excess. Gwen has known this all her life, even if she has tried to suppress it in herself. Anger can be dangerous, but in this case, it will help them. It will spur them to fight for their homes, their livelihood. Their children and their husbands.

Arthur concedes. He delivers a rousing speech to the collected villagers and then comes back to Hunith’s house and sits down heavily on the bed, his face pale.

Gwen starts to go to him but Morgana holds her arm.

“He needs a little time alone,” she says, voice serious. “He knows what he’s asking of them. He knows some will die tomorrow.”

A knot settles in Gwen’s stomach.

They walk to the weapons store instead, which is really just a hastily repurposed grain hut. Gwen sharpens a few swords but there’s nothing much left to do. It’s a pity, as they both need the distraction.

“You don’t have to fight tomorrow-” Morgana begins, but stops when Gwen fixes her a look.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“It was worth a try,” Morgana says with a small sigh. “You know how my heart aches to think of you in peril.”

“Best you have me leave Camelot then,” Gwen says, and Morgana snorts in agreement.

“It’s been an… eventful year, to say the least.”

“I’m somewhat exhausted,” Gwen admits.

“I think we all are.”

Morgana picks up one of the swords, balances it between her hands.

“Practice with me?” she says and Gwen nods. Working the forge has made her stronger and she’s more accustomed to the feel of a sword now that she’s beaten them into shape. But it’s still a long time since she’s wielded one to spar.

They head outside and stand facing each other. It reminds Gwen of their original woodland outings, so much so that she automatically checks for sunlight in the sky. Morgana laughs as she follows the gaze.

“The moon is quite bright,” she teases. “Could put you at a disadvantage.”

Gwen sticks her tongue out and raises her sword.

They parry a little at first, and then Morgana begins to instruct her. Gwen knows Morgana still practises when she can find the time or rope Sir Leon into a session. Her movements are quick and sure, and Gwen finds herself relaxing a little. Morgana will be able to hold her own on the morrow, and that’ll be one less thing to worry about.

She quickly realises that Morgana does not feel the same assurance about her.

“You need to not leave your right side unguarded,” Morgana says.

“Don’t lean back on your foot so much.”

“Your sword has to be held higher.”

Over and over, again and again, until Gwen is hot with exertion and frustration.

“Enough!” she says. “I haven’t the skill you have, Morgana, and you won’t be able to impart it to me in a single night.”

Morgana’s face tightens.

“You need to try harder.”

“I’m trying hard!”

“Well, not enough.”

Gwen nearly throws down her sword in anger.

“This is all I have!”

“No,” Morgana says, and suddenly she is very close. “I will not lose you, Gwen. We spar until you get it right.”

The rage drains out of Gwen then. There is real fear in Morgana’s eyes, and she recognises it all too well. It is the same one she feels when Morgana goes against Uther, when she puts herself in any kind of danger.

“I don’t plan to die tomorrow,” she says softly.

“No one plans to die,” Morgana says, her voice strained.

“Morgana,” Gwen says, and reaches out to trace the contours of her lady’s face. “It will be well. We’ve faced worse. I believe in Arthur and I believe in you. I even believe in Merlin, if he doesn’t trip over his own feet.”

Morgana half laughs at that, and Gwen drops a kiss to her cheek.

“We’ll practice a while longer. But then, sleep. A good rest will serve us better than a night of sparring.”

She is proven right. The next day brings with it victory, but also loss. Will dies and Merlin's devastation is plain to see. It seems Will was a sorcerer, who cast a spell to turn the tide of the battle. Gwen thinks that to be an act of bravery, but Arthur doesn’t seem to agree.

Back in Camelot, she discusses it with Morgana in bed.

“I wish Arthur could see past what Uther’s told him.”

Morgana looks pensive.

“Not so long ago, you and I believed the same.”

“Yes,” Gwen readily admits. It was easier to believe that all magic was evil than to think her rulers might be wrong. Some days she even longs a little for the surety she used to know.

But pain is often the price of knowledge. And Gwen believes knowledge is made to be shared.

“We must keep talking to him. Make sure his mind stays open.”

Morgana kisses her then, on the very tip of her nose.

“You are so very good, my Gwen. If merely half the kingdom had your goodness, I believe we’d be the most wonderful land in the world.”

Gwen reaches out to tangle her fingers in Morgana’s hair.

“You fought so well in Ealdor.”

“It’s different, isn’t it, to fight _for_ something rather than just to fight.”

Morgana suddenly looks rather sad. Perhaps she is thinking of her father, and his last, pointless stand.

“We were victorious,” Gwen reminds her and Morgana smiles.

“Yes. And that should be celebrated.”

And celebrate they do, with no knowledge of what is to come.

If Gwen had known then, what might she have done? What things might she have said that forever go unsaid after?

She was not given the gift of Sight, or even the burden of it. And neither was her father.

***

They spar again two days after Gwen's father's arrest for treason. 

From his prison cell, her father calls her cautious, just as Elyan used to.

The next day he’s dead.

Grief is a chasm Gwen falls into. From the moment she sees her father’s body carted unceremoniously across the courtyard to be tipped into a mass grave with the other criminals, the ground splits beneath her. She can only see darkness all around.

Tauren terrifies her, but he’s almost a welcome distraction. Morgana promises to send the knights out to meet him, and Gwen feels nothing. He’ll be run through, like her father was. Executed like all those who gave Tauren shelter. This is the justice of Camelot.

She goes home and tears apart the new dress her father bought her. Seam by seam, she rips it to shreds and she’s screaming and she’s crying and she doesn’t know how to stop.

It’s nearly dawn when exhaustion takes over. She collects the scraps of fabric together and cleans the house from top to bottom. Then she goes to work in the same dress she wore the day before.

Morgana cancels all her courtly duties the moment she sees Gwen. She orders a bath and then takes Gwen’s clothes off. She helps her in and bathes her and washes and wraps her hair with gentle hands. Then she dresses her in a nightgown and they climb into bed together.

They lie there for most of the day, barely saying a word. Sometimes Gwen drifts off, and she always wakes to find Morgana beside her. Morgana orders double servings of food from the kitchen and coaxes Gwen into eating some, though it tastes like nothing to her. Both Merlin and Arthur knock at various points in the day but Morgana sends them away with a few hushed words at the door.

Gwen can’t speak to them. She can’t speak to Merlin because his sympathy would be too much to bear, and she can’t speak to Arthur because she’s too furious about what his father’s done.

She wants only Morgana’s company, because Morgana’s an orphan too. And the cuff marks on her wrists demonstrate how she fought for Gwen when no one else would. Even though the idea of Uther hurting Morgana makes Gwen ill, she is grateful nonetheless.

She spends all night in Morgana’s bed and goes back to her house in the morning. Morgana wants to come, but Gwen knows it will only get harder and harder to go back there on her own if she doesn’t face it now. It’s horribly quiet and everywhere she turns there are reminders of what she’s lost; her father’s coat on the door, Elyan’s name etched into the table leg, her mother’s blanket on the bed.

She needs to write to Elyan, to tell him what’s happened, but she doesn’t know where he is or how to reach him. She wants him to come home and makes things better, and she’d also rather he stayed away. If he was angry enough to seek revenge, Uther would be more than happy to see him dead too. Better that Elyan never returns to such a place as this.

Her thoughts are desperate but she cannot help them. She can’t remember ever feeling this hopeless. She’s standing before she realises it, pinning her cloak on and stepping out to the forge. It’s in disarray, tramped through by the city guards. The doorknob she was last working on still sits by the anvil, unfinished.

She ignores it and takes up a hammer, beating and beating at a sheet of cold iron as though it might somehow change shape before her eyes. Then she lights the furnace and begins to shovel charcoal in, until her face is damp with sweat.

It’s more satisfying to beat the heated iron, to see the dents she makes. After a while she forgets herself and the metal starts to take shape. It becomes a sword. She works all day until she is near faint with lack of food or water. She’s unsteady on her feet when she hears footsteps behind her, but she can’t quite muster the strength to turn around, even if it is Tauren back to finish her off.

But it’s her lady, with a handkerchief full of food and a skin of water she insists Gwen drink from immediately. She seems to sense that Gwen doesn’t want to leave the forge and so she leads her to the corner, laying her cloak on the ground so they both might sit, backs against the cold stone wall.

Gwen eats while Morgana wipes the grime from her face with a cool cloth. The food has more taste than yesterday, and Gwen wonders if things can really go back to normal that easily. The thought makes her cold. She doesn’t want to give up her rage over this, or her sorrow. She doesn’t want to just accept the way things are.

“Where will you sleep tonight?” Morgana says, and Gwen contemplates.

“My house,” she says reluctantly, and though she’s called it that many times before, it’s really true now. It’s her house alone.

She expects Morgana to insist Gwen sleep in the castle, but her lady only nods.

“Just one night. Then to mine tomorrow.”

There’s something too measured about her tone. Gwen knows Morgana so well, she can tell that something’s off.

“Or perhaps I will come tonight,” she says, turning to search Morgana’s gaze.

“Oh. Well of course. In fact, I may leave you the whole bed to ensure you sleep well-”

“What’s going on?” Gwen says, because any patience she might have for formalities is utterly gone today.

“Nothing’s going on-”

“Don’t lie, Morgana,” Gwen says with as much force as her weary heart can lend her. “Not to me, not now. Please.”

Morgana is silent for a long moment.

“I meet with Tauren tonight,” she says, and Gwen’s stomach drops.

“Why?” she gasps and Morgana takes her arm, her expression urgent.

“We share a common goal. He wants Uther dead and I want to help him.”

The darkness closes in around Gwen again.

“You can’t,” she says, panic rising in her. “It won’t work and Uther will… he’ll kill you.”

“Our plan will not fail,” Morgana says, voice low.

“Morgana, no,” Gwen whispers. “What did I say to you?”

_If anything happened to you, I couldn’t bear it._

“But something has happened to you, and that is what I cannot bear,” Morgana says, her eyes bright. “He nearly had you executed once, and now he has put your father to death in cold blood. I won’t wait for the next time his eyes fall upon you.”

She clasps Gwen’s hand.

“I don’t want this,” Gwen says, anguished. “It won’t bring my father back.”

Morgana squeezes her hand, too hard, too tight.

“Someone else’s father will be next. Someone’s mother, someone’s son, someone’s tiny child. I can’t stand by and watch it happen, Gwen!”

“But who will be king?” Gwen says. “Arthur? Or does Tauren expect to take Uther’s place? Will there be a magical uprising?”

She can see from Morgana’s face that she hasn’t considered these possibilities.

“I will ask him tonight-”

“You can’t control him, Morgana! What’s to stop him killing you after he’s offed Uther?”

Morgana sets her chin determinedly.

“We have an arrangement.”

“Does he have an arrangement with Arthur? Does he trust him, or does he view him simply as Uther’s son? Arthur will be first in line to be executed.”

Morgana pales.

“It won’t come to that.”

“No more bloodshed,” Gwen pleads. “No more death, I beg of you. Let there be another way, we have to find another way.”

“What way?”

“I don’t know! But let us try to find it. Please, love, let us try.”

Morgana slumps then, like a marionette with its strings cut, and Gwen knows she’s gotten through.

“I just want to make things better for you,” she murmurs and Gwen rests her head on Morgana’s shoulder.

“I know,” she says, and picks up Morgana’s arm, pressing a kiss to her bruised wrist. “But you can’t make this better. It has to take its time to hurt.”

Morgana nods, and they sit awhile, listening to the furnace crackle. Then Morgana suddenly rises.

“There’s one thing I can do.”

She leaves the forge without a word and Gwen wonders if it was all in vain, if she’s gone to meet Tauren after all.

But she returns not ten minutes later, shocking a laugh out of Gwen as she eases through the door.

She’s covered in the most ridiculous looking padding, the kind the younger squires wear to protect their bodies in certain training sessions.

“Is this to cheer me up?” Gwen says.

“Unintentionally, yes,” Morgana says. “I hadn’t quite realised how thick these pads were. Still, they’ll do. On your feet.”

Gwen gets up slowly, bemused.

“Take this,” Morgana says and hands over a short staff.

“Why?”

“Well, the practice dummies have been put away and in any case we’d draw too much attention on the training field at this hour.”

“Morgana…”

“Whenever Arthur’s angry, I see him take it out on them. Or on poor Merlin. I thought you could do the same.”

Gwen looks at the staff in her hand.

“I don’t want to hit you.”

“It won’t hurt,” Morgana says. “And it might… help?”

Gwen is about to refuse but the hope in Morgana’s eyes is too much. And she’s already shredded a dress and hammered a sword and there’s fire left in her still.

She nods and Morgana looks relieved.

It still feels odd to just attack out of nowhere. She swings her staff vaguely and Morgana smiles a little.

“En garde,” she says, picking up a swage and swiping at Gwen.

Gwen knocks it from her hand with the staff and Morgana lets it drop.

She leaves her body open, encouraging, and Gwen takes a feeble swing at her stomach.

Morgana arches her eyebrow.

“I can take a little more than that.”

Gwen hits a little harder, and she can tell Morgana barely feels it with all the padding on, but it still feels wrong somehow.

She tries once more, barely catching Morgana’s hip, then drops the staff.

“I don’t want to.”

“Gwen…”

“I said I don’t want to!”

The fire in Gwen flares upwards.

“Do you want me to hurt you? Will it make you feel better about my father, if you get punished for it? Is this just your guilt?”

Gwen spits the words out like arrows and Morgana looks stricken, but Gwen can’t help herself. More violence, always violence. She wants an end to it all.

“I do feel guilty-”

“Well, don’t. You’re here, aren’t you? You stayed. You didn’t collude with a sorcerer just to buy a pretty dress. You didn’t run away in the night to go adventuring and leave your sister behind. You’re here, alright, you’re still here, you’re-”

Gwen’s crying, all of a sudden, her throat constricting, her eyes burning hot. She bends double with it, the force of her grief, collapsing in on herself like a wounded animal.

Then Morgana’s arms are around her, pulling her upright, holding her tight.

“No,” she sobs, even as she clings to her lady. “No, don’t.”

But she doesn’t let go and neither does Morgana.

“I’m here, Gwen, I’ll always be here. I’ll always be here for you.”

She keeps saying it, over and over, until Gwen can almost believe it.

When she has somewhat calmed they go back to Morgana’s chambers, barely slipping off their outer clothes before climbing into bed, curled close like foundlings in the woods.

Morgana does not go to meet Tauren and Uther does not die. Gwen resumes her usual duties and plants a sapling out in the fields for her father. She treats it like his grave and visits it often, bringing flowers to spread around it, herbs to sweeten the air.

The forge will be taken over soon, Gwen knows, now that there is no one to run it full time. But until that happens, she uses it. Late at night, after Morgana is asleep, she makes her way to the smithy to light the furnace and work through the night.

She thinks of her father, mostly. Some nights she thinks of nothing at all.

And some nights, Gwen thinks of how to find the other way Morgana asked her for. The way to free Camelot of Uther’s tyranny without further bloodshed.

She carries on working on the sword she started on that day of blinding grief. When it’s finished she makes another, in much the same style.

One for her and one for Morgana.

They become a symbol in Gwen’s mind – for the love they both share, for the strength they may need in the future. She hopes the day will not come when they take up arms against Uther, but she prepares herself for the possibility.

The possibility she never considers is that she and Morgana might take up arms against each other.

***

All winter long, Gwen looks out from the forge at night and learns Camelot’s secrets. One of the knights is courting May, the wainwright’s daughter; he comes around past midnight to steal a kiss through her open window. Three of the guards are too lazy to patrol the lower town, instead they hide behind the cooper’s and gamble with dice. Too many stable boys to count have stumbled down the main road, drunk on mead and wine stolen from the castle kitchens.

And Merlin has magic.

She couldn’t be sure at first, though she marked his odd comings and goings with a curiosity that turned quickly into concern. Merlin has no business out in the town after dark, and yet she sees him there more often than not with a furtive aspect to his gait and bearing. Then again, she is out after dark too and she has her own reasons for it, might not Merlin have his?

But it all adds up slowly. His night-time excursions coincide with suspicious happenings in Camelot – happenings that he always somehow seems to be at the centre of. The more sorcery appears within the castle walls, the more Merlin scurries about at night and greets Gwen the next morning, dog tired and pale, with bruises adorning his visible flesh.

After she starts looking for it, it’s easy to see. Arthur has always been willing to concede that Merlin had a skill with piping hot baths – something Gwen has never managed for Morgana in all her years of service. He somehow finishes all his work for Arthur and still has time to assist Gaius on his rounds or go out herb picking. And she’s heard one too many stories from bandit encounters about convenient falling branches or ruffians tripping onto their own swords.

It doesn’t escape her notice that none of these examples of magic are particularly evil. Uther would put him to death on the spot, but it’s very apparent that Merlin acts only in the interests of Arthur and Camelot. Maybe too much so. Sometimes when she sees him limping or exhausted, she wants to ask him who he confides in. Who he can turn to with the burden of being a criminal in his own home.

Gwen wonders why he learned it. For some time, she does consider the possibility that he might have a greater malign plot in hand – to learn magic and then journey to Camelot, taking up a place in service at the very heart of the monarchy.

But she just can’t quite believe it. Merlin may have been lying this whole time – and seemingly been a lot better at it than she could have imagined – but there’s no deviousness in him. No malice that she’s seen, or cruelty. If he does have a plot, she can’t imagine it to be a wicked one.

She intends to tell him that she knows, to invite his confidence so that he might feel less alone. She could be hurt for the fact that he doesn’t trust her enough to tell, but she understands it too keenly. He might think her to be against magic, or to be the type that might turn him in. Putting your life in someone else’s hands is a terrible risk to take.

She rehearses several speeches in her head, but the words seem to dry up when she sees him. It feels impossible to broach the subject of such a secret – a secret that he’s guarded so well, that could cause so much harm.

She would ask Morgana for help, but her lady is keeping secrets of her own nowadays. Perhaps Gwen spent too many nights away, perhaps she lost herself too deeply in her work at the forge. But by the springtime, when she finally feels a little more like herself, a little less like a captive of grief, she looks at Morgana and sees that she has changed.

The nightmares are worse, for one thing. When Gwen returns to her lady’s bed, she finds Morgana wakes screaming or crying most nights. She will not talk about what she sees in her sleep, but Gwen knows it must be more potent than the average nightmare. Morgana seems haunted by it in her waking hours, pale and drawn when she rises and painfully nervous as the time for bed approaches.

Then there’s a terrible instance when Gwen isn’t there in which the curtains catch on fire. Gwen torments herself with guilt for not checking the candles were out, especially seeing how badly Morgana is affected. She vows to be there more often, to make sure her love isn’t left alone. But her presence doesn’t seem to make a difference. Morgana wakes more often, grows more pale. Some nights she takes Gaius’ remedies and some nights she doesn’t. She stops screaming out or crying. Sometimes Gwen stirs to find her lady staring at the ceiling, eyes wide with silent dread.

She also becomes terribly jumpy at the mention of magic, which makes Gwen wonder if Morgana believes herself cursed. Gwen takes the initiative to talk to Gaius about the possibility – it has become apparent over the last year that Gaius has more knowledge of magic than he lets on. But he swears he knows of no such curse that would afflict Morgana for so long and in such a specific way.

Either way, it seems the wrong time to introduce the subject of Merlin’s magic. Gwen keeps an eye on him, but she puts the problem of Morgana to the forefront of her mind. What can she do to help?

However she’s distracted once again in summer, when the smithy is finally repossessed. She sits inside her house and weeps, the swords she made for herself and Morgana lying at her feet.

Where is Elyan? Why has he done this to her? Their father’s forge is gone, the last part of him still alive in Camelot, and she couldn’t stop them from taking it. She needs her brother and he isn’t here. He might never be here again.

Melancholy sets her back awhile. Morgana’s disturbed sleep means that Gwen doesn’t sleep much either, and that makes the grieving harder. She feels traitorous for it, but some days she finds reasons to sleep at her house instead. It’s hard to work all day on no sleep and she reasons that Morgana will be better served by a refreshed partner than an exhausted one.

It’s an excuse and she knows it. The truth is, she can barely handle her own pain. She doesn’t know how to take on Morgana’s too.

Then one day a knight rides into Camelot. Throws a gauntlet down and reveals herself to be a woman, with long flaxen hair and bright, cold eyes.

Gwen only understands snatches of what follows. Arthur defying the king and leaving on some kind of quest. His rage when he returns, a fight with his father behind closed doors. Then an uneasy peace, though Merlin looks drained and miserable for days after.

She doesn’t connect any of it with Morgana until she notices the new bracelet on her lady’s wrist.

“Morgause left it for me,” Morgana says. “She promised it would help with the nightmares and it has.”

She looks better rested. Gwen hadn’t been in her bed the last few nights, so she couldn’t know for sure. Feeling guilty, she takes Morgana’s hand.

“Then I’m grateful to Morgause, whoever she was.”

Morgana nods, looking thoughtful.

“Whoever she was. I remain convinced I’ve seen her somewhere before…”

“Perhaps in a dream,” Gwen says lightly, hoping for a smile, but Morgana looks aghast.

“What? Why would you say that?”

“No, I…” Gwen says, confused. “I just meant she was very pretty.”

Morgana relaxes fractionally.

“Oh. Not for me.”

“Glad to hear I’m still in your favour,” Gwen teases, but Morgana barely smiles, giving her a distracted nod before leaving the room.

Gwen is left to change the bed and wonder. Had the bracelet magic in it? If so, Gwen would not object, anything that could help Morgana sleep was a good thing. But why had Morgause given it to her? Why had she come to Camelot at all?

She only gets half a story from Merlin when she attempts to interrogate him about Morgause, and Arthur’s face goes dark at the mention of her name. Gwen knows better than to ask again and tries to see the bracelet she left as a simple act of kindness, one that has improved Morgana’s life immeasurably.

She does not think on it again until she sees Morgause unexpectedly, for a few brief seconds on the outskirts of town. She reports back to Morgana and is surprised to see the interest in her lady’s face. She makes Gwen relate exactly where the sighting was and doesn’t fully explain why.

“I should like to see her again,” is all that Gwen can get out of her.

Two days later, Morgana tells Gwen she has arranged to meet Morgause and to make any excuses necessary with the king should he ask. Gwen is not particularly concerned, until Morgana comes back and refuses to tell her anything of their meeting.

“We just talked,” she says vaguely.

“About what?” Gwen asks but Morgana demurs.

It’s after the third meeting that Gwen begins to worry. A part of her fear stems from the havoc Morgause wrought last time she was in Camelot: the five guards she killed, the fraught silence from Merlin and Arthur on what exactly took place after.

The other part is more personal. Morgana had claimed not to find Morgause attractive. But she had jumped at the chance to see her again and now their clandestine meetings seem to be the highlight of her week. Surely she would not betray Gwen so openly, so uncaringly?

That fear at least is allayed when Morgana returns from their fourth liaison. Gwen is sitting up in bed waiting for her, as she has made sure to be the last few weeks. They are not strangers to one another within that bed, but they are not as they were either. Gwen wants things back the way they used to be, and she’s seized by the anxiety that she’s too late, that Morgana has strayed into the arms of another.

But it’s Gwen’s arms she falls into that night and it’s Gwen she reveals the truth to. Morgause is her half-sister. Morgana’s mother Vivienne birthed her and she was smuggled out of Camelot as a baby to be raised by the High Priestesses.

Gwen is not surprised to hear that Morgause is a sorceress. But she’s as shocked by the news of their shared parentage as Morgana clearly is. She holds Morgana close while her lady weeps.

“I thought all my family was gone,” Morgana chokes out between sobs. “All this time we could have known each other. But Uther’s purge kept us apart.”

It seems that Morgause was smuggled out on suspicion of having magic to avoid her death at the hands of the king. Gwen doesn’t quite understand this, because how can a baby have magic? Magic is learned, after all. The only thing she can think is that one of Morgause’s parents had magic, and it was suspected she would inherit it. Which could mean that Vivienne…

Gwen doesn’t say any of this to Morgana, just soothes her and strokes her hair. It would be too much for her lady to countenance the possibility her mother had magic on top of everything else.

Morgana cries a long time, so clearly heartbroken that Gwen feels churlish and small for her fears that Morgana had betrayed her. She does her very best to look after her love in the days that follow – bringing her flowers and making her lavender baths, just as she had when Morgana first arrived in Camelot.

Yet Morgana’s misery only seems mended by continued rendezvous with her sister. She is still affectionate with Gwen, but it’s clear her mind is with Morgause, and Gwen does her best not to feel jealous. It was only natural that they should want to spend time together after all the years of separation.

She knows Morgana is keeping things from her but she hasn’t quite the courage to confront her about it. She was absent for so long, in body and in mind, after her father died. They lost some of the closeness between them, and it’s no one’s fault, but Gwen doesn’t know how to recover it. She just hopes whatever Morgana’s hiding is not something that will bring them harm.

Her hopes are dashed the night Morgana wakes her up past midnight, eyes wild and breath hot against her cheek.

“He’s my father,” she says without preamble as Gwen sits up, trying to shake the sleep from her mind.

“What?”

“Uther,” Morgana says, her voice very low. “He’s my father.”

Gwen gapes at her. How can this be so?

“What do you mean?”

“Morgause finally told me. He seduced our mother whilst Gorlois was away fighting in the Northern Plains. He – he –”

Gwen reaches out to hold Morgana, for the tears that are surely to come, but Morgana leans away.

“He lied to me. He betrayed my father – my real father! - and then he let him die in battle.”

She is not crying. Her eyes burn with righteous fury and Gwen almost can’t look at them.

“He’s taken everything from me and he’d take more if he could.”

She’s never seen Morgana like this. Her rage is palpable, it fills the chamber, presses down on Gwen until she almost can’t breathe.

“My love...” she says, reaching for her again, but Morgana isn’t listening.

“He must be stopped.”

Her fists clench against the bedsheets.

“ _I_ must stop him.”

“Not this again,” Gwen half-whispers and Morgana finally turns to her.

“What do you mean?” she says, and there’s a challenge in her voice.

“I thought we agreed last time-”

“That you would find another way. Have you found one?”

“That’s not fair-”

“Has Uther’s tyranny diminished since then? Or have more innocents been put to the slaughter?”

Morgana is breathing hard and fast, as though they’re facing each other on the practice field.

“If there was another way, I would find it. But there isn’t. He wreaks violence and so he shall end in violence.”

Gwen is shaking.

“Don’t do this,” she pleads. “Don’t become him just to beat him.”

“I am nothing like him!” Morgana snarls.

“If you kill him-”

“If I kill him, we will be free.”

“And who will rule in his place?” Gwen asks, as she did last time. “Morgause?”

Morgana sucks in a deep breath.

“Would that be so wrong?” she says. “Or do you not like the idea of a sorceress as your ruler?”

“It’s nothing to do with that,” Gwen rejoinders. “But she has come into your life so quickly and now you believe every word she tells you. Did you ever consider she might have an agenda of her own?”

Morgana stares at her, her eyes narrowed. It is the coldest look she has given to Gwen since she first arrived in Camelot.

“You say you welcome magic, but do you really?” she says slowly.

“I believe magic is a tool, for good in the hands of the good and wicked in the hands of the wicked,” Gwen says desperately. “What I do not know and what I beg you to consider is, which are the hands of Morgause?”

Morgana’s face goes blank.

“That is my sister you speak of,” she says at last. “And you know nothing about her.”

She rises from the bed and Gwen tries to tug her back.

“Where are you going?”

“To walk,” Morgana says.

“No, please, we need to talk about this-”

“You have made your position clear,” Morgana says and she sweeps from the chambers.

Gwen is left with a horrible sense of numb fear, spreading out from her stomach to chill the whole of her body. She waits in bed all night but Morgana does not return, and the dawn heralds a new terror inside her. Morgana is so angry that Gwen half expects to hear the warning bells tolling for an attempt on Uther’s life.

Gwen would not miss him. The fact is, she wishes him gone. But she does not wish Morgana to be the one to do it. It would bring Morgana too much pain, too much sorrow. It would set her on a course she could not come back from.

But what is the other way? It’s more imperative than ever that Gwen find it and yet her thoughts yield nothing. She cannot succumb to the belief that the only way to peace is through violence. Too much is at stake. The heart of her kingdom and the heart of her lady. There had to be a different way to prosper. A different way to be.

She goes back to her house, bathes and dresses herself. Then she picks up the two swords she made and brings them to Morgana’s chambers, the barest inklings of a plan stirring in her mind.

Her lady does not return.

Gwen cleans and sweeps and dusts and waits. The sun has set before Morgana finally appears, dark circles under her eyes and an expression of stone.

“You’re dismissed for the day,” she says and Gwen shakes her head.

“No.”

“I order you to leave,” Morgana says coldly and Gwen shakes her head again.

“Have you made your plans? Will it be tonight you strike?” she asks, sitting down on the edge of the bed.

“Why do you want to know?” Morgana sneers. “Going to report me?”

“Never,” Gwen says with all her heart.

Morgana’s face softens for the briefest of moments.

“Go home, Gwen,” she says, turning to the window. “That way you will not have to lie if anyone asks you hence what you saw this night.”

“You mean if you should fail.”

“I am not so arrogant as to think my task is easy,” Morgana says, still looking out into the night. “But I have the help of my sister.”

“Is she here? Or does she leave you to do the deed alone?”

Morgana has been alone too often, Gwen thinks. If they get through this, she’ll make sure her lady is never alone again.

Morgana moves from the window to her drawer and withdraws her dagger, slipping it into her cloak pocket.

“Go home, Gwen,” she says again.

“You hope to bring down the king with a single dagger?” Gwen says.

“No,” Morgana says and she turns to face Gwen for the first time. “I will use my magic.”

For a moment there’s a roaring in Gwen’s ears, and then it’s followed by a perfect, calm silence.

Of course Morgana has magic. Of course. It makes so much sense that Gwen feels a fool not to have seen it earlier.

“Will you report me now?” Morgana says, eyes flashing in such an achingly familiar way. Oh Morgana. For all the changes they’d been through, from the two young girls they’d been, she's still the same. Gwen knows her so well. Better, perhaps, than Morgana knows herself.

“Magic is a tool for good in the hands of the good,” Gwen says, standing up. “And that is what you are, Morgana.”

For a moment Morgana’s face crumples, and then she forces a sneer.

“I hope you still believe so once I kill the king.”

“You’re not going to kill the king,” Gwen says, walking over to the sideboard.

“Watch me,” Morgana says, voice almost a snarl.

“Not unless you kill me first,” Gwen says, and she lifts the two swords she forged for them.

Morgana blanches.

“What are you talking about?”

She takes a step back as Gwen approaches, but Gwen simply offers her one of the swords, hilt extended.

“I made this for you,” she says, and Morgana reaches out and takes it, almost on reflex.

“And I made this one for me.”

She holds her own up for Morgana to see.

“I started them after my father died. To symbolise the love between us.”

She looks down at the sword in her hand, the smooth and gleaming metal she has polished to a shine.

“But it’s not the symbol we need, Morgana. Hope doesn’t grow from the clash of a sword. Or even the whisper of a spell. Only love can breed hope.”

Morgana is standing very still, sword clutched in her limp hand.

“Not just the love between us two, but the love we have for our families and our friends and all the people who care about us.”

“It’s a short list for me,” Morgana says bitterly.

“No, it isn’t. You forgot something yesterday, when you heard the truth from Morgause. You’re still forgetting it now.”

“What?”

“That we choose who we love,” Gwen says simply. “Who we let in, who we cherish, who we protect. I could say to you that you gained a brother yesterday. That Arthur is now a part of your family.”

She can see from Morgana’s face that this had not crossed her mind yet.

“But I’d be wrong to say that. He already was. Just as Merlin is, just as I am. Just as Gorlois was.”

Morgana flinches.

“He’s still your father,” Gwen says softly. “What you heard cannot unmake that. He is the father you chose.”

Morgana takes a long, shuddery breath. Then she raises her chin.

“Then I will honour him by striking down my false father.”

Gwen shrugs.

“Alright. But like I said…”

She lifts her sword.

“You’ll have to kill me first.”

Morgana frowns.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

Gwen moves until she is blocking the doorway.

“If you can kill him, you can kill me. It’s for the greater good, after all.”

“Stand aside.”

“I will not,” Gwen says, more calm than she’s felt in a long time.

Morgana’s eyes narrow.

“I won’t kill you but I will move you aside,” she warns.

Gwen nods.

“You may try.”

Morgana looks torn for a second and then her mouth sets and then she raises her sword.

“So be it.”

Her first strike is hard and Gwen barely parries it. She regroups quickly enough to deflect the next blow.

Their swords clash in mid air and Morgana tries to force Gwen’s to the side. Gwen just about holds her own, pushing Morgana back a step as they part.

She makes no move until Morgana does; she will only defend in this fight, not attack. Morgana’s next swipe comes too fast for Gwen to stop it so she shifts aside and Morgana presses her advantage, leaping forward to try and pass Gwen by. But Gwen manages to get her sword out in front of her to force Morgana back.

She is out of breath already. Morgana is the better swordswoman, always has been. But Gwen is fighting for so much more than herself and she can’t give up.

She blocks the next couple of blows with a strength that surprises her. Morgana seems surprised too, brow furrowing as she tries to break through Gwen’s defences.

They spar a little, and it’s almost like old times except not at all. Gwen wonders if her lady is thinking the same thing, remembering how they were.

Gwen doesn’t want the old times back anymore. She’s learnt enough to know she wants something new, something better.

Morgana feints left and then strikes out but Gwen is ready, pushing her sword back. Too late she realises that it was a trap as Morgana shifts her stance and forces Gwen’s sword to nearly the ground. Gwen’s arm can’t bend that far and she drops it with a shout.

“Yield,” Morgana says.

“No.”

Gwen reaches for her sword but Morgana places her foot on it.

“Yield.”

Gwen stands. Morgana still has her sword in her hand.

“I can’t.”

Morgana purses her lips and then she casts her sword aside with a clatter.

“I could just move you with magic.”

“And let that be the first magic I see from you?” Gwen says quietly.

“You should be afraid of me,” Morgana says, and perhaps only someone who knows her as well as Gwen could hear the shake in her voice.

“I am not afraid of you or your magic, and I never will be,” Gwen says clearly.

“You should be,” Morgana says. “I know how to do more than set the curtains on fire now. I know how to stop a man’s heart. I know how to curse a crop. I know how to conjure up a wall of flame.”

“Can you make a flower grow?” Gwen asks.

Morgana’s face twists.

“Don’t mock me.”

“I’m not. I don’t want a wall of flame. I have no use for cursed crops. Could you grow my favourite flowers out of season? Or magic up a cure for the bunions that Betty the cooper’s wife suffers from? Or find a way to make the grain multiply so the outlying villages don’t go hungry?”

Gwen steps in close to Morgana.

“Could you find a way to make Camelot a better place for all who live in it? And can you summon the courage to do it your own way? Not the way Uther did it, with swords and fire and blood. Your own way.”

They’re a hair’s breadth apart now, so close that Gwen can smell the earth and sweat on her lady’s skin.

“I think you can,” Gwen says, and Morgana bursts into tears.

Gwen takes a hold of her, leads her back to the bed. Removes her cloak and sets the dagger to one side. Takes a handkerchief and wipes her lady’s eyes.

“Gwen…”

“Hush. You were right that enough is enough. Uther cannot rule us any longer.”

Gwen takes her hands and kisses them.

“But we do this together. All of us, it’s the only way.”

“All of us?” Morgana says, raising her tear-stained face.

Gwen nods.

“Wait here,” she says and goes to the door, to send a guard to fetch Merlin. She cleans Morgana’s face while they wait, helps her into a new dress. Then she brushes and braids her hair, careful not to tug on a single knot.

Merlin’s face falls when he sees them.

“What’s happened? Do you need my help?”

“Nothing’s happened,” Gwen says. “Or rather, everything’s happened. And we do need your help, but first we need the truth.”

Merlin shifts in place.

“The truth?”

Gwen nudges Morgana.

“Tell him. Tell him about your gift.”

Morgana looks at her askance.

“I promise it will be alright,” Gwen says. “I promise.”

Morgana looks so frightened but she sets her face determinedly.

“Merlin, I… I have magic.”

Merlin’s shock is almost comical.

“You… I don’t know what to say.”

“Yes you do,” Gwen says gently.

He looks at her and she nods significantly at him. A flash of panic crosses his face.

“You know?”

“For months now. I’m sorry I did not come to you sooner.”

She means it. None of this secret keeping had done any of them any good.

“No, I…”

He looks ashamed suddenly and turns to address Morgana.

“Morgana, I suspected you had magic. So it was I that should have come to you.”

Morgana half starts up from the bed in surprise.

“You suspected?”

“After the fire.”

Morgana’s expression saddens.

“I would have given anything to have someone to talk to about it.”

Merlin bows his head.

“I know. I’m sorry. I was wrong.”

The silence sits for a while.

“It’s alright,” Morgana says eventually. “We live in a place that hunts people like me. It is not an easy topic to broach.”

“But I should have known better,” Merlin mumbles.

“Why?”

He looks to Gwen helplessly, and she gives him an encouraging smile. He nods back at her and turns again to Morgana.

“Because I have magic too.”

If Morgana was surprised before, Gwen thinks she might fall off the bed this time.

“You learned magic?”

“No,” Merlin says, and it’s Gwen's turn to be surprised. “I’ve had it from birth. It’s instinctive for me.”

“I didn’t know that was possible,” Gwen says, thinking again of the baby Morgause, born a crime.

“I think it’s rare,” Merlin says awkwardly and they lapse into silence again, the enormity of the conversation momentarily overwhelming them.

“Could it be instinctive for me too?” Morgana asks in a small voice. “I have been learning recently, but the dreams… they came true long before I knew what magic was.”

“I believe you’re a Seer,” Merlin says. “And I think that’s a power that cannot be taught.”

“A Seer,” Gwen says in wonder. “You can see the future?”

“Not everything,” Morgana says, frowning. “Or hardly anything useful, actually. My dreams rarely make sense to me.”

“We might be able to work on that,” Merlin says, and Gwen can’t help but marvel at the things he understands, things which are entirely new to her.

The two of them face each other, and Gwen suddenly feels like she’s intruding on a private moment.

“I wish you’d told me,” Morgana says.

“I was afraid.”

“So was I.”

“I thought… I thought your status as ward might protect you. If Uther found out about me…”

Morgana’s face hardens.

“Uther would not protect me if he knew.”

“I won’t tell if you won’t,” Merlin offers, and it’s the weakest of jokes, but somehow all three of them burst into giggles.

Perhaps it’s sheer hysteria after so many revelations but it feels good to laugh. Gwen clutches at Morgana and feels her lady slip her hand into Gwen’s own.

“We need to talk about Uther,” Gwen says and Morgana squeezes her hand. “But we need Arthur here first.”

Merlin suddenly looks terrified.

“I can’t tell him about my magic.”

“It’s time, Merlin,” Gwen says softly. “You can trust him.”

She turns to Morgana.

“You both can.”

Morgana looks scared too but she dredges up some sort of pained smile.

“And if he takes it badly?”

“Then we’ll run away to Ealdor,” Gwen says decisively. “Who needs Camelot anyway?”

Both Merlin and Morgana are milk white as Gwen goes to the door to ask the guard to fetch Arthur. But neither of them stop her and she senses they want the secrecy to be over just as much as she does. One can only live in fear for so long. People want to trust each other above all else.

Arthur enters the room with suspicion in his eyes.

“What are you all plotting together?”

“Sit down,” Gwen says, pulling out a chair for him.

Arthur sits, warily.

“Seriously, why have I been summoned? I feel like I’m about to be put on trial.”

Gwen sits back down on the bed next to Morgana. Merlin is pacing a little, as though he can’t help himself.

“We need to talk to you,” Gwen begins, but doesn’t quite know how to go on.

Luckily, or perhaps unluckily, Morgana intercedes.

“I have magic,” she announces. “And I’m not evil and I won’t use it to destroy Camelot but it’s not wrong and I won’t stop learning it.”

The colour drains from Arthur’s face.

“You must be mistaken.”

“No mistake,” Morgana says, her voice softening. “I’ve been Seeing things in my dreams for a long time. Things that came to pass. I didn’t choose this Arthur, but I don’t want to refuse it either. I think I can do good with it.”

“But magic is evil,” Arthur says, and he sounds small and lost.

“That’s just what Uther told us,” Morgana says, leaning towards him. “It can be used for evil – I know both of us have seen plenty of evidence of that before – but it can be good too.”

“She’s right,” Gwen said. “In other parts of the country they use it freely. And it can help people.”

Arthur turns to Merlin, as if seeking a lantern in the dark.

“I agree,” Merlin says in a low voice.

Arthur shakes his head.

“You’re just saying that because of your friend, because of Will…”

“Arthur, Will didn’t cast that spell.”

Merlin looks like his legs might give underneath him but he carries on.

“I did. I have magic and I’ve had it from birth. I’m sorry I lied for so long.”

Arthur freezes in place.

Then he laughs, a short sad bark.

“This is a jest! You’ve all gotten together to fool me!”

He searches their eyes, clearly hoping to see mirth there.

“It isn’t,” Merlin says, voice breaking. “It’s true, Arthur. But my magic is yours. I use it only for you.”

“But… but…”

Arthur looks pleadingly back at Morgana.

“This can’t be true.”

“It is,” she says and he exhales shakily.

Gwen can see him blink away tears and then his fists clench.

“So what is this? You were all in congress together were you? Laughing behind my back this whole time-”

“Arthur, we love you,” Gwen says loudly, and he’s shocked into silence. “You are a true friend and a good man. You are better than your father and you know better than him. You do not have to toe his line on magic.”

“These words are treasonous,” Arthur says, but he sounds less sure than before.

“We love you,” Morgana says, as loud and clear as Gwen. “And we know you won’t hand us over to your father.”

“Hand you over?”

It’s clear from Arthur’s expression that he’d never countenance such a thought, and Gwen breathes an inner sigh of relief.

“No, I won’t hand you over,” Arthur says heavily, and he seems to sink in his chair. “Even though you’ve lied to me all this time.”

Merlin lets out a sob and Arthur turns to him, quick as lightning.

“I won’t hand you over,” he repeats, staring straight at Merlin. And then: “This is what you meant, isn’t it?”

Merlin puts his hand over his mouth, like he’s trying to choke the tears back.

“When you told me no. When you said you couldn’t say yes yet, because you needed to do something first. This was what you needed to do.”

Gwen doesn’t understand, but Morgana is digging into her ribs with sharp fingers.

“What does-” she starts to say and Morgana shushes her.

“I wanted to tell you,” Merlin manages to get out and then the dam bursts and he’s weeping, tears spilling down his face like heavy rain.

Both Gwen and Morgana start to move towards him, but Arthur gets there first.

He enfolds Merlin in his arms, gripping him tight.

“Alright,” he says, almost too quiet to hear. “It’s alright. You’re an idiot but it’s alright.”

Merlin sobs into his chest, seemingly too overcome to reply.

Gwen and Morgana sit back down on the bed, turning away as best they can to give some semblance of privacy.

At length, Merlin’s sobs subside and Arthur draws back a little.

“So if I were to ask you again,” he says, very seriously, and Merlin’s mouth parts in shock.

“You still want to…”

“There is talking to be done first. But after that, if I were to ask again…”

Merlin squeezes his eyes shut and then opens them again.

“I would say yes,” he whispers, and leans forward to meet Arthur’s lips with his.

Gwen can hardly be surprised about the two of them after all this time but it still gladdens her heart to see.

“I told you,” Morgana hisses, and it’s Gwen’s turn to poke her in the ribs.

They look away discreetly until Merlin and Arthur break apart.

Gwen can’t help a nervous giggle, and Arthur points his finger at her.

“First of all, you’re in no position to laugh considering the highly questionable choice of lover you’ve clearly made.”

“Oi!” Morgana says indignantly, and Gwen giggles again, nerves gone.

“Second of all, each and every one of you owes me an explanation. So that’s what we’re going to do now.”

And they do. Merlin gets food from the kitchens and they sit on the ground and eat with their hands and talk. Some of it is hard to hear, for all of them. Some of it is shocking and some of it is painful. But all of it is true, and Gwen knows that’s the best foundation for what is to come. Honesty will keep them together.

The conversation about Uther is more difficult still. Several times Arthur shuts down. Refuses to contemplate what Gwen proposes. But beneath the anger she sees the fear and so she persists.

It is not a conversation to be finished in a single night. It is only the start of many more to come, as they make plans for the future. For the Camelot they want to see, for the Camelot they want to build.

The work begins now.

***

The summer after next is the hottest they’ve had in years. Not quite as hot as the year when Gwen and Morgana sparred in the barn, but hot enough for them to seek a cooler refuge in the forest.

It’s a rare treat for Arthur to accompany them. As king he is busy all the time now, though they all are. Morgana’s role as Court Sorceress keeps her steadily occupied, while Merlin’s work as Chief Advisor to the king is so time consuming that he’s reluctantly had to find a new assistant for Gaius. Gwen considers herself to have gotten off lightly with just a role on the council, although she has an unofficial title too. Arthur made it plain from the start of his reign that servants should have a voice in the castle, and who better for them to air their grievances to than Gwen?

Which reminds her.

“Arthur, can the steward put Edward on the later dinner time? He keeps missing his evening meal because Lord Pomfrey likes to bathe for so long.”

“No castle business,” Morgana scolds from where she’s unpacking the swords from her bag. “We’re out here to relax.”

“Yes, tell the steward I approve it,” Arthur says, only half listening. He’s eyeing the swords eagerly, and Merlin gives him a little push towards them.

“Go on then.”

Merlin spreads a blanket on the ground for him and Gwen as the siblings begin to spar in the clearing.

“Is Lord Pomfrey still taking those ridiculous three hour baths?” he says. “We should be charging him for the water.”

“Put it on the next meeting agenda,” Gwen says and Merlin laughs.

He looks younger, these days. There was a time when the whole weight of the world seemed to be on his shoulders, but now he looks freer.

They all do.

Uther didn’t go without a fight. They had known he wouldn’t; it took months of careful coordination and planning and persuasion of the knights and councillors before they’d launched the coup. Bloodless, just as planned, once the guards outside Uther’s door had been safely put to sleep by magic. Then a simple body-bind on Uther to keep him in place and listening as they proposed their terms.

He was not easily convinced to abdicate the throne. But the choice was no longer with him.

It had not felt glorious or triumphant, that night. Arthur and Morgana both looked so pale as to be sick after Uther signed the documents to strip him of power. He said terrible things to them, words like _traitor_ and _betrayal_ and _treason_ that cut to the very heart of his children.

But he was silenced when Morgana revealed she knew the truth of her parentage. And told him of her magic.

That night was the hardest part. The next day, Uther was taken to his new living quarters in the west tower. Gwen would have preferred a trial, preferred to see his crimes be reckoned with. But Arthur was inflexible on the subject and Merlin reminded Gwen that the tower was a prison after all. More opulent and well equipped than any dungeon would be, but a prison nonetheless. Uther would never walk free again.

There was unrest, of course; unrest which took time to quell. But the people of Camelot were ready for a change. For the most part they welcomed Arthur as their king and they welcomed the lifting of the ban on magic. The purge had caused much pain across the land. There were many who had prayed for an end to it.

Arthur visits his father on a regular basis. Morgana has only been once and she was strung tight as a quiver when she returned. Gwen knows there is still much healing to be done.

But today it is sunny and her friends are with her and Gwen feels at peace. The work isn’t over but a new dawn has risen in Camelot. Things will be better now, because of the choice they all made.

She and Merlin gossip about the goings on in the castle while Morgana and Arthur attempt to beat the hell out of each other. Arthur has the upper hand for strength, but Morgana is quick and also not above using magic to gain an advantage.

“Cheating!” Arthur cries when he trips over on thin air.

“You need to be ready for magical attacks,” Merlin reminds him, and Arthur sticks his tongue out.

“Switch with me, Merlin, I’m tired of beating him,” Morgana says and Arthur makes a noise of protest. Merlin readily gets up and goes over to Arthur, who’s still lying pathetically on his back, arms splayed out.

“She tricked me, Merlin, and now I can’t get up.”

Merlin kneels down to kiss his forehead.

“Did that help?”

“A little bit lower,” Arthur says, tapping his lips, and Merlin obliges.

“Idiots,” Morgana says fondly, flopping down next to Gwen on the blanket.

They watch for a minute as Merlin and Arthur fight, Arthur with his staff and Merlin with his spells. It's supposed to train both of them, but it usually ends in some rather unnecessarily touchy-feely wrestling.

Gwen can’t begrudge them. It had taken them long enough to get together. She watches as Arthur pins Merlin, laughing in triumph before he leans down for another kiss.

“If they do that in a real battle, you and I will have to carry the whole thing,” Morgana remarks.

“I think we can do it,” Gwen says. “I’m a dab hand at sparring, you know.”

“Oh, I do,” Morgana says.

Gwen threads a final daisy through the daisy chain she’s been making, and then links the two ends together.

“Your crown, my lady,” she says ceremoniously.

“Why, Gwen,” Morgana says, pretending to blush. “I don’t know what to say.”

She bows her head and lets Gwen place the circle of daisies on top of her hair.

“Sure you don’t want a real one?” Gwen says and Morgana laughs.

“Not at all! Arthur’s much better at all that courtly lark, he can keep it.”

She eyes Gwen, then pulls her down so Gwen’s head is on her lap.

“Of course, if I were queen, I could make you my princess. I’d like that very much.”

Gwen snorts with laughter.

“I wouldn’t! Princesses never get to have any fun.”

“I see,” Morgana says, stroking Gwen’s cheek. “Then we better just stay plain old Morgana and Gwen.”

“I’m happy with that,” Gwen says, and she tips her face up for a kiss.


End file.
